"Quite right, and I thought we settled all that before," responded Markworth, knowingly. He continued, as if in response to a question from the lawyer. "Quite right, Mr Trump. But you see, I took very good care that the happy day on which I called her mine should not be until after the date on which she came of age;" and Markworth laughed very heartily. Strange to say, neither Mr Trump nor his partner joined in the laugh this time; both of them looked more stolid and parchmenty than ever. The senior of the firm went on straight to the point. "That is just the question we have to decide, Mr Markworth." "What do you mean?" "Exactly what I say," answered Mr Trump, calmly. "That's the point," said Mr Sequence; and both looked at their subject composedly--just like dentists! "What the devil do you mean? staring at me like that," said Markworth, angrily, and turning pale with apprehension. "What pettifoggery are you raking up now? I'm not to be frightened easily." "We are not pettifoggers, Mr Markworth, and have no wish to intimidate you or any other person; but the date of your marriage, or quasi-marriage"--Mr Trump corrected himself--"with the girl has got a good deal to do with us, and you too." "Go on, man, go on, and say all you've got to say without any more unnecessary words. By Heavens! I can't bear all this talking." Mr Trump went on systematically inserting the forceps, without paying any attention to the excitement of the other. "The date of your marriage was--?" "You know well enough. Have you not got the copy of the marriage certificate?" "The 28th of August, I believe?" "Right," said Markworth, curtly. "And what then?" "The date of your marriage, you allow then, with Susan Hartshorne, was on the twenty-eighth of last August; and, my dear sir, she did not come of legal age until the 29th of August, the day after the marriage." Mr Trump could not refrain from putting an inflection of triumph in his voice, as with a mental twist of his wrist he extracted the metaphorical tooth. Even Mr Sequence gave vent to a faint chuckle, without, however, disturbing a single line in his immobile face, as he squeaked out in a sort of victorious way, "The day after the marriage; the day after, my dear sir--" the longest sentence he had ever yet been known to utter. "By heavens! it can't be--it can't be. It's an infernal swindle," exclaimed Markworth, violently, his face flaming with passion, as he jumped up; and, seizing the lawyer by the collar, he shook him as a terrier would a rat; "it can't be; it's a confounded swindle!" Mr Trump remained as calm as ever under this unexpected assault; but as for little Sequence he hedged himself into the corner by the window, having his chair and the table as a sort of barricade before him. Markworth recovered himself in a moment. "I beg your pardon, Mr Trump," he said, apologising; "I forgot myself; what was it that you said?"